


All The Way Down

by mirallpost (mirall221)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - No Marry, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Return, Reunion, Sharing a Bed, Shelock comes back, Slow Burn, but John is too hurt to let him in again, but they cant be apart either, gonna be more than originally intended 3 shapters, heavy grieving, not more than 6 i promise promise, ok this story is running away, they just cant thats how it is period, up to 6 maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirall221/pseuds/mirallpost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was sitting on the floor by his bed and looking at his hands.</p><p>His hands, which still had tiny speckles of blood on them from the last night, blood that belonged to a man who died two years and a month ago. And who came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Land of the Living

You have broken me all the way down  
Down upon my knees  
And you have broken me all the way now  
You'll be the last, you'll see

 

Glen Hansard ("All the Way Down")

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feyy2useLfY

 

It was bleak, gloomy morning, the never ending sound of London breathing and moving poured through the open window to the room, in which a short blond man was sitting on the floor by his bed and looking at his hands.  
His hands, which still had tiny speckles of blood on them from the last night, blood that belonged to a man who died two years and a month ago. And who came back.

\-------

… And to think that the day started so peacefully. He woke up, stretched, had a nice cuppa while reading headlines of the morning newspaper, flossed, brushed his teeth, got dressed and headed to work. He liked his new job in a nice little surgery just across the street in Ealing. Not the central London anymore, but it was London nevertheless, and he appreciated that he could stay in it. It was something. 

Mrs. Hudson had pleaded with him to stay in the flat for half the price, but he couldn’t. The day Sh… the day it happened, John sat in his chair barefoot and numb to the world for 4 hours, and when he finally came out of it he felt he couldn’t move without touching things that were his. The notebooks, scattered on the table and some of them under it, the music sheets, the books, the empty tea cups, gloves, second favourite scarf, empty flasks, a comb, pens, pencils and markers, post-its, paperclips, thread, all sorts of magazines and papers and just - just stuff, his stuff, things he left and who looked for all the world like they were waiting to be picked up again by the same hands that left them wherever they were, and it was just… The very floor and walls and ceiling were full of the man that simply could not not exist, because then it all, absolutely everything, loses all sense and direction, and home is but a soulless location, an address, a post code, and everything in it reflects how unforgivably stupid and naïve you have to be to grow to love the place and the things and the... Because it just doesn’t work like that. You can’t simply wake up one day and feel light and free and safe and feel your heart swell with even the thought of going downstairs and seeing… well. Now everything showed their true colours: a cruel joke, an elaborate lie… Not him, never him. But their life together, the joy, the thrill, the feeling of rightness in all of it. He should have seen the cracks in the walls, the holes in the ceiling, the rats of death running around in his friend's mind palace. Surely there were signs, surely he would have seen them, if only he weren’t so busy bathing in the sweet essence of ill-founded sense of companionship.

He couldn’t breathe without choking here anymore. And what was worst of all, he was choking on his own unforgivable mistake to always see, but not observe. (Was he telling him then? Was it a clue he hadn’t picked up on? How many times had he missed Sherlock reaching out? How many times all of this could have been prevented?)

 

So John H. Watson stoically answered calls that needed to be answered, assured people that he was ok, stood in the graveyard watching his sun set deep under ground, gave his gun to Lestrade for “safekeeping” – he wasn’t even trying to fool anyone, it just sounded better than the alternative - and moved out the next day to a first shit bedsit he could find on two days notice. 

\--------

He didn’t cry for the first year. 

He burned the charcoal black suit he never intended to wear again one day in the bin outside, and waited responsibly 'til it was all gone with a bucket of water to tame the fire afterwards. Never again cause any more damage to anyone else.

He dutifully sat at Harry’s, then Sarah’s and Lestrade’s every month or so and answered questions politely and calmly, glad they didn’t have the guts to actually ask anything of importance, and in turn enquired about their lives, jobs, girlfriends, boyfriends, new furniture pieces and other things that were making their world bubble spin and fly, before inevitably bursting into thin air. He kept this particular thought to himself, but the image never left his brain. He idly thought why his bubble isn’t bursting yet, when everything it was made of was dead and unmoving. He imagined mould creeping up the walls and thick poisonous fumes engulfing the little room his soul was currently occupying. Surely it can’t last long like this. Soon, then, hoping for soon. 

His nights were plagued with creepily vivid images of a dark silhouette always falling down and never hitting the ground, with John standing behind him for some reason, either he was the one to push the other, or just waiting for his turn. But that’s to be expected, that’s the nightmare of the reality. The infinitely worse ones were those in which they both sat in 221B and chatted about this and that, the ones in which Sherlock was wearing his pyjamas and his face was photographically accurate, down to the shape of his eyebrows and the way his hair fell, the shadow between his nose and his eye, he always would be careless and relaxed, and dream John would talk to him and the knowledge about his death would not be present. With these, the nightmare part was the waking up.

Ella made him say stuff he did not want to say out loud, and he felt strangely empty for a week after that. She said that it means that it’s working, that it is necessary to get things like this out. He came back for the second and third appointments, but it just felt like somebody knocking on the door that was painted on the piece of plastic and it only made a sound, but never actually opened anything. He never arrived for the fourth session. 

…Which was great, since it cost him a fortune he did not have. He never called in to say he’s quitting his job at Sarah’s surgery, but after 3 months she let him know that they have a decent candidate to replace him, but that the job is still his if he wants to come back. Now. John thanked and declined. His days were full of nothing, wandering around the streets in shady places of London, saving money on cab / tube / bus fares, since it was just easier to be on his feet all the time, restless and desperate to cram every nook and cranny with haphazardly scattered images of shops, people, places, with noise, smell, anything, anything to cover the ruins of the life that never really existed. He bought and ate anything cheap enough from Asda or Tesco and spent his remaining money to pay the rent. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, and also knew he couldn’t concentrate on making lunch, let alone work. He was afraid he would just randomly burst in flames upon seeing blood on a patients forehead or something else entirely unrelated to anything – it just wasn’t fair to attempt to do something he clearly wasn’t capable of anymore. He was old, damaged and stubborn, and for all he cared his name could be Jason or Bryan or Robert, cause it sure didn’t seem that John Watson was there anymore. 

Then, 4 months after that day, his savings account, that previously had only £300 left, mysteriously grew to £3000 overnight, and sure enough, the ever-composed Mycroft Holmes was paid a visit by one incredibly furious ex army doctor, who threw a handful of banknotes on his sturdy mahogany desk and demanded that he leave him and his bank account the fuck alone. Which lead to Mycroft calmly stating that he never meant to insult him, simply wanted to help before John was homeless due to not being able to pay rent. Which then led to John becoming absolutely livid and storming out to the street, and in front of the car. 

 

Which led to the leg cast and temporary comeback of the cane. And inability to roam the streets as previously. And moving to Harry’s flat. And utter and complete silence from John's part. The world was mute to him, and he was mute to the world.

Harry was trying to get back on her feet again, and it actually seemed like it might just work this time, since she had a decent retail job and rented a small but clean flat near Leytonstone tube station. It only had one room and a kitchen, but they used to live in one room as teenagers, so it wasn’t a huge deal to have John's bed added to one corner. Harry was clearly worried for him, but knew better than to try to make him “open up”. She’d been in enough of dark holes herself to recognize one, and kept it all to herself.  
Until one day, upon hearing a street musician play violin by the entrance of the tube, John, who sat at the little white wood table in her tiny kitchen, gasped like a drowning man, a big gulp of life. At first it looked like he was choking on something, but he wasn’t eating anything at the time, no food was on the table. Then the sobs came, and continued late into the night. He didn’t speak, just sat there, his head in his hands, his pain bursting out like a sheer force of nature. Harry didn’t quite know what to do, but John seemed content to just have her hand on his shoulder and when he was too exhausted to cry anymore he slept and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.

Two weeks later he found a job in Ealing, rented a flat there and did his best to stick to the routine of working, eating, sleeping and repeating it all over again.  
Time does not heal all wounds, and some will always bleed if touched, but at least he wasn’t hoping for “soon” anymore. He even visited Sherlock’s grave every few weeks. As summer went, the doctor would sit with his back to the cold headstone and think or read. He could not stay away from it any longer, and after admitting this to himself it became easier to be there. The bitter tang of guilt and longing would still be his merciless torturers, but, even if a big part of him remained dead, John Watson came back to the land of living.

\--------

 

And then, one rainy evening in September, so did Sherlock.


	2. In the Shadows

Silent river, roll on  
When the levee's weak you're gonna break it  
Silent river, deep and long  
Stay the road you're gonna make it

Well a flame's been handed on now  
To a new wave rising strong  
Step out of the shadows  
My little one

 

Glen Hansard ("Step Out of the Shadows)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTjRp_urJK0

 

 

 

Sherlock left Mycroft’s home clean shaven, well rested, appropriately bandaged, wearing his usual attire of black suit and his favourite coat and at total loss of how to proceed. It was obvious life in London wouldn’t just stop and stay the same until he came back. And most of it didn’t. Well. 

Mrs. Hudson moved to Spain indefinitely, since Mycroft paid 221B’s flat rent two years in advance, even though no one was using it after John moved out. She felt too sad in the building all by herself, and she and her two years younger sister decided to leave rainy England shores and try to find light, in every sense of the word, somewhere else. Mycroft assured his younger brother that his (former?) landlady is doing ok, if a little worse for the wear emotionally after Operation Lazarus took off.  


 

Lestrade seemed to be his old inspector-y self, but Anderson, apparently, suffered complete meltdown upon learning about the famous “suicide,” and now was fanatically looking for clues of Sherlock’s activity online and in papers. He’d always been a little wonky, that one. Though, to be fair, the Tibet bit was very accurate and the fact that Anderson, of all people, spotted that, was both surprising and disturbing in equal measure.

Molly found a man. Something about his looks must be off, judging by Mycroft’s sly smile and “wait ‘til you see him” comment.  


 

 

John was…he still was. Is. Breathing, living. That was a relief of mythical proportions.

But that was that. Everyone else Sherlock either did not care about or they did not care about him enough to be too affected. The whole world, the media, that once was on his side, went nuts after the fall and pompous headlines screamed about the “consulting liar”, but that was the goal. For the world to believe what he needed it to believe, so Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John would be safe. 

And it worked.

Lestrade was ok. 

Mrs. Hudson was ok. 

John was ok. 

Alive. That was the goal. 

It was long and painful, and it was over. He'd killed only defending himself, and only when it was inevitable. Two. But they were life or death situations. He never was the one to take lives just because he was on the right side. Mycroft’s people proved to be resourceful and quick, so he provided information, created a trap or went wherever nobody else would go simply because only he knew what to look for in Moriarty’s vast network. Except that time in Paris, nasty business. And Slovakia, he will always have the scar to remember that happy day. And the latest little adventure in Serbia, which was the last mission, and also the one that went terribly wrong; a cherry on top, so to speak. And the worst of all – not being able to come back, even for a day, a few hours, to London. To England, even. He got regular updates, and somehow they made it all even harder. John moved out. John lost his job. John was in a car accident (FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, MYCROFT, OF ALL THE DANGERS FOR JOHN WATSON RIGHT NOW, YOU WERE THE ONE TO PISS HIM OFF ENOUGH SO HE WALKED INTO THE STREET WITHOUT LOOKING TO THE SIDES?!). And then the latest: John moving on, with his new job and flat (and soon, inevitably – girlfriend). It was to be expected, it was what Sherlock wished for him. It was good. It was for a cause. Moriarty was dead. The network was destroyed, and at least fifty angry faces got their well deserved sentences. Three snipers were identified and neutralized. 

The risk was eliminated. 

It all worked. 

It was time to come back. 

 

 

But where?


	3. Ruins

Come on my little ruin,  
Won't you open up and let me in  
Well time has not been kind,  
But you're still standing here.

Leave a light on in your window,  
Won't you let me see a sign.  
It's gonna take more than smoking mirrors  
Now for me this time.

 

Glen Hansard ("My Little Ruin") 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6DHDNIL5LA

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock looked at John from afar. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so afraid of what might happen next. John looked so weary and thin, and so incredibly familiar at the same time, that it hurt somewhere behind the ribs. It was the first time after that day in the graveyard that John was so near him. He was so close, a couple of steps away, buying yogurt and who cared what else. His wallet was the same, black and simple, he kept it in the inner pocket of his jacket, dark blue, cheap-ish, not the old one with a patch; his fingers found a ten pound note and prepared it for the person at the till. Sherlock stood behind a flower stand, all kinds of roses and lilies and whatnot partly blocking his view but doing a good job hiding him, being as tall as it was. 

Honestly he did not plan this. The return was just a thing he was going to do, after the job was done. The how of the matter never really crossed his mind, apart from the basics: he assumed he would just go to John, explain the - actually pretty impressive, John should like it – surviving of the jump, the reason it had to be done and what happened after, and then just sort of… Well, not move on, exactly, he wasn’t delusional and understood that John would not be happy at first, maybe even attack him, give his newly shaved face a couple of bruises. Of course. John was a very emotional being and this scenario was a highly likely outcome. But then what ?.. 

 

A surge of his own, unrecognised, emotion nearly incapacitated Sherlock, and all he could do was to just turn his back. He wasn’t even sure why. Not to hide his face, his face was as immobile as ever. To hide, to hide something… or better yet – to contain, yes, to contain something that was currently trying to claw its way out of Sherlock’s chest, with brutal force, leaving his breathing and blood pressure patterns a complete mess.

His palms itched to connect with John, a handshake, a pat on the back, or on the shoulder, things done before countless of times were now calling to him like an ocean calls a river. He was being consumed whole by a desire to be physically close. He rarely touched people without a reason. It just so happened, that for the last two years that reason wasn’t exactly pretty. 

It was a really, really long, long day of 25 months and he craved being able to rest. 

His body, always under absolute control of his mind, suddenly started doing its own thing and there he was, tall and well dressed and unable to move. Move, moron, move! He is going to see you, and this is NOT how he is supposed to see you!

But he just stood there and did his best to breathe. 

When he turned around again, John was already out the door and walking away.

As if in a trance, he followed.

 

\--

Something was off, he felt it as soon as he entered the store. The tingly feeling on the back of his neck was increasing with every minute he spent there, and by the time he left, he was certain he was being watched.  
If this were two years ago, Mycroft’s name would be the first to pop up. Now, however, he was a nobody to nobody. And whatever this was about, he would find out before dinner.  
He calmly walked out of the shop with the bag in hand, and chose a street full of people rushing home from work for his way home. Maybe he was being sized up as a potentially weak target for robbery: middle aged, with a cane, harmless. Grabbing his cane’s handle tighter, he made a turn to the little and dark-ish street, where the entrance to his flat was. If anything was about to happen, it would be now, in a place with no witnesses. He almost chuckled to himself darkly: oh, were this to occur just a couple of months earlier, he would have made a perfect victim who wouldn’t even fight back.  
He heard several footsteps behind him. His door was still a good 300 meters away, and he was not looking back. Footsteps came closer, and two young men passed him by. Regular strangers, then. But he could still hear one person behind him, quiet, unhurried steps. He stopped, and the person behind him did the same.

Oh, what the heck.

John turned around. 

-  
-  
-  
-  
-  
-

He didn’t even drop his bag. Just looked, looked and looked at the statue of a man in front of him. It was six o’clock, starting to drizzle, and people were rushing to the tube. Several others passed them making a shortcut to the station, while John just stood there and stared at Sherlock, who stared right back, his eyes scanning John’s wordlessly. 

Sometimes a ridiculous amount of time is needed for one’s brain to connect the dots in order to believe his own eyes. John took his fair share of time and then some more. And then some more. And then some. 

Sherlock, for his part, just did his best to stay upright and not to sway. Somewhere in the background of his Mind Palace his hopeful self was frantically searching for words, any words – literally, at this point, ANY – but there was nothing, as if he wasn’t online, and the only information he could access was the absolutely basic bodily functions required to survive. Which was useful, on its own, but also frustratingly unhelpful in this particular situation. 

Finally something came.

“Hello, John.”

John’s breath hitched as he opened his mouth but no sound came out. Only his shaky breathing became more audible. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Sherlock was still here. 

\----One more miracle. Just one more. For me.----

Somehow, this didn’t seem like a miracle. This was fast evolving into a very cruel and very not funny joke. 

Sherlock made a mistake by stepping forward. 

John did not move, but unconsciously flexed his free hand. 

“John, …” 

Whatever he was about to finally say mixed with the sound of John Watson’s fist connecting to the detective's jaw. And, shortly after, the nose.  
Sherlock’s hand found a wall to lean on, while he stood with his head hanging low, several blood droplets making it onto the pavement.  
He was bracing himself for whatever was about to happen, even if he couldn’t exactly deduce what, John like this was hard to read. 

But nothing came.

 

Only more silence followed.

 

 

And then he heard John going away. 

When he reached his door, he carefully put the Tesco bag down, took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, went inside and locked it behind himself. 

 

Twice.


	4. Tired Eyes Look Up and See

Tired, tired eyes look up and see  
All you’ve done, the path you’ve come,  
The things that you’ve achieved.  
And when you're doubting  
I hope you’ll trust in me  
Tired, tired eyes look up and see

Shelter, shelter bell ring out for all below,  
Keep your doorway open wide,  
Give us somewhere to go.  
And when we're full of doubt,  
And we don’t know what about,  
Don’t you tell us no.  
Shelter, shelter bell ring out for all below

 

Glen Hansard ("Stay the road")  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABXNPc6ooXE

 

 

His flat was too small for this. Surely one must have space for being restless, surely everybody knew that. A person had a right to education, equality, freedom of thought and religion and a private place to freak out when necessary.  


 

 

His kitchen failed him miserably, clean and small, with no spare dishes or appliances to break, unless he wanted to eat his next meal straight out of his own hand. The living room/bedroom was equally disappointing and dull, and there was nowhere to pace, which John desperately needed right now.  


 

He wanted to call someone to… to just make sure he won’t finally lose it altogether. Who else knew? Was he the first? Or the last? Because it was real, it was.  


Just say true or false. John.  


True. MH

 

Fuck it. Bloody fuck it all.  


 

 

He was hungry. For pizza, maybe. He had that leaflet that came with the post yesterday, buy one and get the second for half price. He couldn’t leave the flat, because of what – who – might still be outside, but he was so hungry, he just knew yogurt wouldn’t fill him up. He made the order online and was told there would be up to a 50 minute wait. Right, he could do this, the bathroom had needed cleaning for a week now, he’d just purchased that cleaning powder that promised to bleach his bathtub and make it look new again. And he might just work up that appetite for the, wait, two pizzas, was it? Oh, wait, he was already hungry. So it wasn’t necessary to build up the appetite. But the bathtub needed that cleaning. He’d never used that powder before, maybe he could use it to destain the kitchen sink as well? Nothing about sinks on the label. But they’re basically just smaller bathtubs, aren’t they? Can it be used for the toilet bowl then? Google surely will have some advice. Good thing, this Google, he doesn’t have to call Harry or anyone else for advice on house cleaning, like he had to do several times in his student years. It has all information you need, really, you don’t know something? Just Google it! Wait, something’s off, oh right, he’s still wearing his jacket, a bit uncomfortable really, too warm, so ok, the powder was apparently rubbish according to the customer reviews online, but it was just a pound, and still better than nothing, but wait, it says you must use gloves, he did not have gloves, like, that kind of gloves, at least, of course he had winter gloves and sterile gloves in his first aid kit, wait, would those work, I guess, why not, but they might tear and he only had a couple of pairs left in the box, all used up from the times he used to patch up Sherl…

 

 

Oh, wait, right, pizza guy is here.  


 

“Hey, just let me get the money.”  


 

“Yeah no problem.”  


 

“There you go, thanks, keep the rest.”  


 

“Cheers!”  


 

The pizza smelled wonderful, wait, why are there two, the guy probably made a mistake, he surely did not order two. He wasn’t that hungry, after all. Really not hungry at all, actually. Just tired. Maybe even a bit dizzy. And slightly breathless. A lot. He just couldn’t inhale. At all. Absolutely nothing in his lungs, zero incoming oxygen. The pizza boxes fell to the floor and John followed shortly after, desperately trying to expand his stubborn lungs. His heart did not appreciate the change of things and started beating twice as fast, hurting like hell simultaneously.  


 

He was having a full blown panic attack on a day that had been really good and peaceful and absolutely monochromatic like all his days were starting to be, until they weren’t. He finally got a gasp in a big, satisfying gulp of air and decided to just stay where he was, lying on the yellow-brown carpet by the bed. He was lying there, until sleep finally showed mercy and took him in.  


 

\--  
It was a bleak, gloomy morning, the never ending sound of London breathing and moving poured through the open window to the room, in which a short blond man was sitting on the floor by his bed and looking at his hands.  


 

His hands, which still had tiny speckles of blood on them from the last night, blood that belonged to a man who died two years and a month ago. And who came back.  
Finally he got up and washed any traces of the blood off. He stood by the sink, watching the bubbles of the antibacterial soap go down the drain in little whirls and circles, and reveled in the strange calm that was all over him. He still felt everything else, and quite strongly, but it felt as if he was breathing fresh air in for the first time in ages, instead of drowning in poisonous gas day by day.  


 

 

It had all been a trick, just a magic trick for a silly boy in the audience. It was humiliating. It was absolutely dreadful, what it did to him. It was a pause button to his existence, without any hope for it to start again. It was what losing the most loved one did to you. It was irrepairable. It was eye-opening, but a tad bit too late, which made it so much worse. It was pain that never stopped.  


 

 

It was tearing him apart until yesterday.  
He had to be furious. He was. But John Watson wasn’t one to lie to himself. And the truth was, that he also felt joy so overwhelming, it was almost as crippling as his anger.

 

He washed his face.  


 

 

 

\--  
Sherlock was standing by his door when he left for work. John stopped, looked straight at his face for a moment, letting it sink in, reveling in the ability to do that again, and then continued walking. No matter how raw he was inside, the world that had Sherlock in it was infinitely better than the world that didn’t. Pride be damned.  
He knew Sherlock would follow. He did.  


 

 

The Surgery’s building was about 10 minutes away. He could see its white/yellowish walls on the far end of the High Street.  


 

 

“Why are you here? ” John’s voice was even, composed. Not a quiver. Strange, that, since his heart was having the time of its life transforming his chest into a dance floor.  


 

 

“Three minutes, John. That’s all I ask.”  


 

His voice. His voice. How he’d missed it. And it was here, along with the man it belonged to, whom he’d missed even more. Unbelievably so. But he’d been played, cruelly manipulated into believing a lie. One of many.  


 

 

 

 

“Why?”  


 

 

There was a pause. He couldn’t help but glance at Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead, walking by his side, eyes fixed on the same surgery’s building. His arms were hanging by his sides, effectively making him look out of sorts: Sherlock always kept his hands either in the pockets of his coat or behind his back, or they were energetically swinging by his sides. Today he looked like he wasn’t used to having such things as hands, and therefore didn’t know where to put them. He looked clumsy. Unsure. Not his old cocky self.  


 

But then again, death would do that to you, wouldn’t it.  


 

“I can’t not tell you. I need to tell you.” It didn’t came out as a plea. It came out robotic and emotionless. Years ago, John would have been sure he knew better. Now he just felt a stab in his chest. He did not know anything about this man anymore. Maybe never did.  
But here he was, back. John will have to deal with this eventually.

 

 

“Go.”

\------

7.00 AM Dr. John Watson entered his office at the Central Surgery Ealing, took off his jacket, called the Front Desk, asked to postpone his first patient for 15 minutes, then leaned against the examination table and allowed himself to cry for the second time in two years.  


His eyes were red when Mrs. Norris entered, but he only laughed when she asked if he was all right.  


“Allergies, Mrs. Norris, you know how it is. Now what can I help you with today?” he asked, at the same time noting in surprise with how light he felt. Liberated. Purified.  
Himself.

 

 

 

Two storeys lower, outside, a black cab pulled over and a tall, dark haired man got in.  
“221B Baker Street, please.” The driver remembered him for several days as that guy who had a freakishly good posture, unwilling to compromise it even in the moving car, by never letting his back slump against the car seat and instead holding onto the front passenger seat in order to sit ramrod straight the whole journey.

 

 


	5. Let it Burn Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love has been the cause  
> Of all this suffering  
> And what has been our loss  
> Has been it's gaining  
> So lay your burdens down  
> And stop your crying
> 
> Will we let it burn  
> Burn us down, burn us
> 
> /.../
> 
> Will we let it burn  
> Burn us down, burn us  
> And maybe it'll turn  
> Us around
> 
> Glen Hansard "The Cost"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfZy5U3QHDI

The Baker street flat was cold. Mrs. Hudson had been away, in Spain, for more than half a year now. Her flat was still full of her things, but that was it. Things. 

His own stuff was mostly in brown cardboard boxes, John’s handwriting on all of them. "Shirts.” “Trousers." “Shoes.” “Books.” “Notes.” “Socks.” To a person without the knowledge about the situation back then, it could’ve looked like Sherlock was preparing to move. John had believed he was lying dead in the grave, while he did this.  
And yet everything was done very carefully, as if Sherlock would still need his clothes or books or lab items someday. Nothing was lost or broken or thrown in without care. Piles of papers filled with his scrawny scribbles were all put into folders, and folders into boxes. Violin in its case lying on the chair. His microscope along with vials and tubes and Bunsen burner were all protected with bubble wrap. Even his toiletries, shampoo and shaving cream and cologne had their separate box. His bedding was washed and folded away as well, his bed bare and covered with a plain white sheet to prevent dust from gathering onto the mattress. 

 

The living room and the kitchen in 221B were empty. John’s old room was also empty, just like whatever they had between them 2 years ago.

 

The pain in his friend’s face was so plain, it burned every time John spared him a glance while he was talking, telling the –why– behind his faked suicide. He had heard how bad it was, the whole story from Mycroft and saw some footage of John wandering the streets aimlessly a month after the funeral, John leaving the same pub pissed 3 weeks in a row, John moving to Harriet’s. John, broken beyond repair. The realization that he was the reason behind this, was absurd and real at the same time. The whole time he was away, Sherlock was convinced that John was moving on; slowly, not happily, but on. Mycroft didn’t tell him anything until the mission was completed, and it had to be completed, it was their only option. If he had to make the decision to jump again, he would do it again. It was inevitable, the only way John and others could stay alive. But it had its cost. Lestrade will eventually need his help again, Mrs. Hudson will forgive him after chastising him for a while, but John… John will never forget, that much was clear. Moriarty actually managed to burn the heart out of me, he thought bitterly. And I didn’t even know I had one. 

221B was just a cave for a wounded animal to hide in now, providing roof and a place to sleep. 

Mycroft kept paying the bills so there was electricity, hot water and the internet.   
Cups, tea and kettle were in one of the boxes on the kitchen’s floor. 

A light dust layer covered every surface.  
There was no smell, apart from a vague trace of damp, stale air. 

 

It was a life stuck in pause, maybe never to be again. 

 

Sherlock needed to change his bandages. Needed to take a very careful shower, trying not to wet them. He needed some painkillers. He needed to eat, and to sleep, and to walk in London again, alone, like he always had been, save for those couple of years when John lived with him.

He needed to go to the Met and meet Lestrade and solve cases and do what he was good at. He needed to post on his blog and start taking interesting cases from civilians. He needed to live, because he was really lucky he got to do that. 

 

In the end he just lay on his side on the sofa, still wearing the coat, and looked at the dark fireplace for hours, waiting for sleep to show mercy on him.   
It never did.

 

\---

 

John didn’t know what to do. So he did nothing. He went to his job, ate dinners and watched telly.

Three days after Sherlock came to media exploded with news about “The Consulting Detective Cheating Death.” He received calls fom Lestrade and Mike and Mrs. Hudson, even Anderson (!), and politely let them rant about their shock and surprise and happiness and reassured them he himself was fine, yes, what a surprise, of course I’m happy, but all fine, everything is fine, thank you. 

He hadn't contacted Sherlock in any way, nor was he contacted in return.   
He prepared breakfasts, did the washing up and cleaned his flat.  
He thought about Sherlock all the time.   
He took long walks, tiring himself down and feeling the ache in his leg and shoulder on rainy days.

He wondered if this is how it was going to be from now on. Like none of it really ever happened, including the day he’d met that thin dark haired man in the lab of St. Bart’s. Like he'd just existed in this small dingy flat for all those years after returning from the Army, and had not, in fact, experienced adventure, friendship, grief, and overwhelming joy. Like he had not, actually, found a home and lost it. Like he was not touched by anything but time passing by between one shift at the surgery and another.  
He slept, and didn’t dream anything. 

He treated colds, stomach bugs and rashes, and thought of Sherlock all the time.   
He felt humbled, thankful and happy to the point of exploding, and betrayed and angry to the point of imploding, and absolutely stupid because most of the time he just longed for Sherlock in a way that wasn’t within their usual frame of platonic relationship, and wasn’t that just an absolutely idiotic thing to feel when you’re 41 and have seen more of life and death than many will ever have the chance at. 

But at the end of the day, John Watson was given his miracle, even if it felt as though in order to get it, he had to be stripped of his pride and peace of mind and become so raw it seemed he was bleeding every time the thought of his friend crossed his mind - and that was nearly always. He was too old and too tired to keep pretending to himself about this anymore. He had thought Sherlock was dead. Regardless of the reasons why, he wasn’t. That was the most important message his brain would accept. He was not robbed of this fascinating human being that is Sherlock Holmes. It was eons away from the world he'd been living in just 4 days ago. It didn’t matter that friendship (if it was possible to restore it) was all that will ever be on the table. It was precious. It really was mind blowing, when you think about it. He was alive and Sherlock was alive and God help him if he wasn’t going to take it. 

Time went by and he still worked, ate dinners, watched telly and thought of Sherlock, who was alive, every day. And for the time being it was, strangely, enough. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock woke up and looked at his phone. Ten minutes. Better than the previous one. 

 

It was the third day he'd been living on catnaps lasting only a few minutes each. But not because he chose to. He just. Couldn’t. Sleep.   
It was exhausting. He'd been running on fumes yesterday. Today… today he wasn’t even sure how he was able to think. But he was. And it was a curse on its own, when all he could think about was John, looking at him like he was a stranger, in that alley. John, going away from him and locking the door. 

\--- I don’t want you here. Go away.--- 

John, limping by his side and not looking at his face. 

\---This has changed us. I am not the man you once knew anymore---

John, who became absolutely, scarily pale when he listened to Sherlock mutter the “why” of the whole damn story. 

John, with no expression on his still white face going into the surgery building without a single word. Avoiding a monologue becoming a dialogue. Having nothing to say and having heard enough to have closure. Finishing this. Making it clear. Exiting. Not looking back. Not wanting to look back.

 

It was done, then. It was all done. 

 

And he was tired, so very tired. 

 

Mycroft and Anthea came on day two. He helped him change the bandages on his back, and she restocked the fridge. Mycroft tried to talk but Sherlock couldn’t listen, it was all too far away. He knew his brother cared about him, and even if he wouldn’t show it they both knew without a doubt that Sherlock returned the sentiment fiercely. But it wasn’t in Mycroft’s power to make this ok. None of this was. He agreed to take a couple of sleeping pills his brother brought with him. They didn’t work. Mycroft would not leave him the whole bottle of them. Sherlock knew he thought this to be a “danger night” extended to day and then night and then day for who knows how long. He had no doubt that should he decide to take a walk around the block, there would be a couple of Mycroft’s men following him discreetly, in case he would attempt to buy something stronger than prescription pills.   
That was yesterday. 

 

Sherlock had been lying on his side in his freshly made bed for what felt like weeks. The wounds on his back were still too raw even to attempt to lie on them. All the colours of his room looked bright and unrealistic. He hurt everywhere. He was trying to concentrate on his breathing, count to a million and backwards, stare at one spot, stare at the other spot, not stare into anything, just keep eyes closed and not move. But nothing worked and he just endlessly balanced on the edge of sleep and never fell over it.   
His Mind Palace was full of useless information, data, charts, cases. He had just finished what could be considered the greatest and biggest case in his life, and he came back victorious; it was solved and completed. 

And he hadn’t felt this defeated ever in his life. 

He wasn’t bored or agitated or angry or restless.  
He was just empty and alone, and felt it seeping into his bones like lead and making him heavy with his own despicable sentiment. Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was drowning in everything he hadn't allowed himself to feel in the last two years. 

 

The room felt like a glass bowl filled to the brim with something thicker than air, and it was suffocating him. 

 

He needed to get out. 

 

 

\---

 

John finished work late. Not having the ability to really concentrate doesn’t help with paperwork, and it had been piling up for days. He decided to sacrifice a couple of hours after his usual shift end and get it done.  
It had been a long day and all he wanted was shower and a good night’s rest.

His flat was quiet when he stepped in, but there was some light from the street coming through the windows, so it wasn’t completely dark. Which is why John immediately saw someone sitting on his sofa even before he switched the lights on. There was a tense moment while John just stood by the door and waited the other to do something; when nothing happened, he flipped the switch.

What he saw was one Consulting Detective in t-shirt and sweatpants, sitting on his green uncomfortable sofa, knees brought up to his chin, arms around them, face resting on top, sleeping soundlessly.

John stood and watched him breathe for a little bit, just revelling in the sight. He'd never really looked at him like this since he came back. The man resembled a hurt child, his body all hunched up and tense even in his sleep. He was even thinner than John remembered, if that was possible, and paler. Sleeping like this he looked extremely fragile and breakable. The t-shirt lifted in his back and exposed… what was it?   
John stepped closer. Underneath the grey cotton Sherlock's skin wasn't ivory, as it was on his hands. It was heavily bruised, deep blue colour mixing with purple and sickly yellow that made John’s stomach sink. Now, when looking from a closer distance, he could see the T-shirt looked unnaturally bulky from the inside, and he immediately knew there were bandages all over Sherlock’s back. Guilt and affection and unbelievable anger towards whoever did this rushed in all at once and all he could do was to just take it all in. He wanted to run his fingers through those dark curls, he wanted to check the wound (wounds? It looked like there might be more than one), he wanted to hug him and never let go. He wanted to talk, to tell him everything. There was no fear of losing him or their friendship at this point. John lost this man once, and everything that ever mattered was up in flames as well. And now that Sherlock was back, here, in such a domestic and vulnerable state, he couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid of anything anymore. He was too tired of running, hiding, he was tired of hopelessness.

 

If Sherlock came here, he wanted to be here. And John would take him back as a friend, like before, or as anything else. He would take it in any form or shape, as long as Sherlock Holmes was in his life. 

He took a blanket from the side of his bed and wrapped it up around Sherlock’s shoulders.

 

His bedsit was cold in the evenings.

But not anymore, it seemed.

**Author's Note:**

> :)  
> If you liked it, please leave a comment, if you have constructive criticism, please don't hesitate as well. 
> 
> Many, many thanks BAFan for the beta! :) Seriously, I am so glad I have you. You are brilliant and amazing and smart and your opinion matters so much. <3 And you reply so quickly it's mind boggling. Mind. Boggling. 
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, night night.


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